


the week is full of rainbow fruit

by Eurphrasie (eurphrasie)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Gender Identity, Getting Together, Mutual Pining, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 01:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19860961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurphrasie/pseuds/Eurphrasie
Summary: Crowley had just taken a swallow of the all-together too sweet Riesling he’d ordered with their starters when Aziraphale announced, ‘you know, I think I’m going to give being a woman a bash for Christmas.’Aziraphale decides to experiment with gender performance-for purely aesthetic reasons, of course.





	the week is full of rainbow fruit

Crowley had just taken a swallow of the all-together too sweet Riesling he’d ordered with their starters when Aziraphale announced, ‘you know, I think I’m going to give being a woman a bash for Christmas.’ 

He put down his glass. Aziraphale hadn’t touched his yet, too busy awaiting Crowley’s response.

‘Alright,’ he said, shrugging. He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction was appropriate. ‘Congratulations?’ 

His shot in the dark had hit the mark, as a smile broke out on Aziraphale’s face, his eyes somehow beaming. Crowley never understood how his eyes beamed like that. Must be an angelic thing. 

‘Yes, I thought it might be fun to mix things up a little, you know–aesthetically speaking.’ 

‘Yeah, sounds good,’ Crowley said. 

For someone shamelessly sensual in their perusal of humanity’s beauty, Aziraphale had never taken much of an interest in fashion. His corporeal form had never seemed like something he’d given much thought to; rather like the cream frock coat he’d been wearing since Queen Victoria was around, as long as Aziraphale’s body ‘did the job’ so to speak, that was all that mattered. Crowley liked to shift and stretch and shed identity like skin–at times when he’d felt a little too human, he’d envied Aziraphale for his comfortable corporealness. But, he supposed, now The Apocalypse was been and gone, perhaps Aziraphale felt different, so why not express it? Crowley felt that something had changed within him, too, an itch that he couldn’t quite scratch, some feeling stirring underneath that he couldn’t quite catch or name. 

‘I thought you ordered the Riesling?’ Aziraphale said, forehead crumpled in confusion as he held the gold wine up to the light. ‘I’ll forget my own head, next. Never mind me, darling, this Sauvignon is just perfect.’

They didn’t see each other for five days, when Crowley stopped by the bookshop with pastries. He’d forgotten all about the conversation by this time, too busy wondering why he hadn’t heard from Aziraphale. It wasn’t that they saw each other every day, not at all, but these days Aziraphale usually only subjected him to such radio silence when he was wrapped up in a particularly good book, and any book that took him this long to read was unusually long, possibly dangerous. 

A second unusual, possibly dangerous, occurrence greeted Crowley when he entered the shop: a customer. A slender woman with a waved white blonde bob was absorbed in a rather intimidatingly chunky Russian book. Watching her from between the stacks, he saw her, cosied up in a chair behind a stack of Gnostic Gospels by the dust-coated cash register, her long legs curled up underneath her, as if butter wouldn’t melt. Though Crowley could only see her from the back, it was clear that she had made herself comfortable in Aziraphale’s apparent absence. A little too comfortable for Crowley’s liking. Could she have done something to the angel? 

He approached silently. Having spent extended periods of time as a snake, Crowley had always prided himself on his stealthiness, and sneaking up on people had always been popular with demons. His creeping skills were top notch, allowing him to successfully avoid detection from all but the most keen hunters, namely the colourfully pierced sales assistants in the fancy soap shop on Oxford Street. 

The woman had glowing skin the colour of a freshly baked apple pie and cheeks so rosy that they rivalled the plumpest of cherubs: Crowley should know. She was frowning in concentration at her book, her tongue was sticking out of the corner of her ruby red lips, her beaming blue eyes hidden behind spindly, and quite redundant, reading glasses. 

‘Where have you been?’ Crowley said, sprawling himself in front of Aziraphale. The art of sprawling while standing is tricky, but it was yet another serpentine skill Crowley had perfected over the years. He thrust the paper bag at Aziraphale. ‘Look, pastries.’ 

Aziraphale blinked, book forgotten instantly.

‘Oh, wonderful!’ she said. ‘Any pain au chocolat?’ 

‘Dunno, have a look,’ Crowley said: he’d hidden two at the bottom of the bag. ‘What’s new?’

It was a moment before she replied, cheeks bulging with pastry. 

‘Oh, you know, selling books and all that,’ she said finally, flaky crumbs spraying on her cream cashmere sweater. Evidentially, she’d also updated her wardrobe too, as well as knocking off a couple of decades and enhancing her ‘feminine wiles’. When Crowley fancied presenting as female, he usually just threw on lipstick and a skirt and left it at that, but he supposed Aziraphale always did like to be thorough. 

‘People in buying Christmas and Hanukkah gifts.’ Aziraphale frowned: apparently the festive spirit had been enough to convince her to let several patrons leave with purchases. ‘But, the lady from the florist down the road did come to leave me a Christmas card. Isn’t that lovely?’ Aziraphale said, her face brightening at the thought. 

‘Wasn’t she surprised by your new look?’ Crowley said. 

‘Oh, well, yes,’ Aziraphale said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. The first pain au chocolat was long gone, and she was now hunting in the bag for the second. ‘But she just said that she thought it was wonderful how open people could be these days. Smashing, I think.'

‘Oh, yes,’ Crowley said, meaning it. ‘What do you say to a mulled wine?’

‘Oh, yes, please,’ Aziraphale said, practically pink. ‘Let me get my coat.’

Crowley was almost relieved to see that Aziraphale pull on her usual frock coat, though the thing was so miracle by now that it was a wonder there was any coat left in it. Crowley suggested they go to the Christmas Market, prompting a spirited argument about who’s side Christmas belonged to – ‘rampant greed and taking out loans to afford presents that will be half the price on Boxing Day? Peace and goodwill don’t come into it. It’s definitely downstairs’ event, angel, even without Bublé’ – when Aziraphale suggested that they might have a turn on the Ferris wheel.

It was true that Crowley was responsible for the London Eye, however Ferris wheels weren’t really in his area. He’d taken credit for all amusement parks downstairs and the demonic energy in the Paris Magic Kingdom had earned him a particularly pleased note from the Boss, but truthfully travelling carnival rides and circus’ weren’t on anyone’s side; in fact, they weren’t even entirely from this temporal plane of existence. 

‘Oh, I am sorry, my dear. I forgot that you’re not terribly keen on heights,’ Aziraphale said, frowning unhappily as the two of them squeezed into their car. 

‘I love heights,’ Crowley snarled. ‘The higher the better, that’s what I say.’ 

Aziraphale patted him on the arm, smiling. ‘Of course, dear.’ 

The man who’d taken their tokens pulled down the safety bar with an uninspiring clunk before winking at Aziraphale. ‘You’ll have to take care of him up there, love,’ he said, leering.

‘Oh,’ she said, rather flustered. ‘Yes, I will, thank you.’

This isn’t so bad, Crowley thought, as they completed their first rotation and came back down towards the ground. The winking man was bent over, his builder’s bum unfortunately unavoidable. Crowley was tempting him to purchase a belt and book about Everyday Sexism, and then he was looking at the ground, and then he was rather glad he had sunglasses to hide his closed eyes behind as they ascended once more. 

The wheel came to a stop and they swung, stationary. 

‘Look, there’s St. Paul’s! Did you know I helped inspire that one, Crowley?’ 

‘What’s this? Why have we stopped?’ he said, cracking open one yellow eye. 

‘Well,’ Aziraphale said. Her cheeks were even rosier now: the cold air. ‘That gentleman may have decided out of the blue that he ought to call his wife and promise to appreciate her more–shouldn’t take more than five minutes. We can really take in this marvellous view.’ 

‘Hmm,’ Crowley said. ‘Great.’ 

After a minute or so, he felt Aziraphale’s hand slide into his own. Her fingers were warm. 

‘Look, my dear,’ she said, softly. ‘It’s starting to snow.’ 

He opened his eyes; it would be fine as long as he didn’t look down. He looked at Aziraphale, instead. Her mouth was parted in wonder, as she watched the snow fill the sky over St. James Park. 

‘A white Christmas? Really?’ Crowley said. ‘How very Hallmark of you.’ 

She pulled her hand from his and slapped his upper arm in a way that was more Gentlemen Prefer Blondes than he ever would have ever expected. 

‘It wasn’t me, you fiend!’ 

‘Fluffy white snow in early December? With that Ozone Layer? In London?’ He smirked. ‘It’s got your miraculous fingerprints all over it, angel.’ 

Of course, Crowley knew that wasn’t the case. The minor miracle was well worth it to watch Aziraphale puff in indignation. 

She folded her arms sulkily, tucking her curled fist underneath her elbow. ‘It wasn’t me, I tell you. Now do shut up and let’s enjoy the view.’ 

She sagged against him: it was cold. Crowley jostled them both slightly to wrap his arm around her shoulders, enjoying the warmth seeping through that ridiculous jacket to him. He opened his eyes a crack, just enough to take in the snowflakes falling on top of her white head. 

‘What is a Hallmark, anyway?’ Aziraphale asked, her nose scrunched up.

‘It’s a type of movie,’ Crowley said. ‘It means that it’s a very good movie. Surprised you’ve never seen one.’ 

He’d be surprised if Aziraphale had seen a movie since Chaplin was the top A-Lister: her new Grace Kelly look was an almost shockingly modern curveball. 

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale said. ‘I suppose this is a bit like a “movie”. Wouldn't you say? A…romantic one.’

Crowley tried to resist doing a double take, and only half-way succeeded. ‘I suppose,’ he said, looking down at her. 

She was looking up at him. Her lips open, and her eyelids slightly hooded in a way he hadn’t seen since they’d discovered Opiates together after the Fall of Troy.

‘Are you alright?’ Crowley said. ‘You look a bit weird.’

Aziraphale stiffened. She blinked. Crowley fancied that he could hear the sound of her featherduster lashes batting against her permanently dewy cheeks.

‘Oh yes, I’m fine,’ she said in a tone of voice that was a distant cousin of ‘fine’. ‘I’m just a little dizzy, I suppose.’

The ferris wheel began to move again and Crowley wondered if he ought to remedy the situation he’d accidentally caused. He hadn’t meant anything by it! Besides, Aziraphale wasn’t one for holding grudges–she’d get over it. However, fifteen minutes later, when Aziraphale morosely declined his olive branch offer of roasted honey peanuts, Crowley realised that he may have underestimated the situation. 

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean you looked _weird_ weird. You don’t look weird, just a bit different, that’s all. You look great.’ 

Aziraphale looked at him, her eyes hopeful. ‘You really think so?’

‘Absolutely,’ Crowley said. ‘It’s fun to try a new look. I’m glad you’re embracing it.’ 

Aziraphale then allowed Crowley to buy her a cotton candy. ‘So,’ she said, spun sugar clinging to her lips like pink foam, ‘you prefer this then?’ 

‘Prefer what? Oh.’ he scratched the back of his head, ‘Well, you know. It’s your body. Doesn’t really matter what I think.’ 

‘But, let’s, just for a moment, suppose,’ she said, conducting with the cone of dilapidated cotton candy for emphasis, ‘that I wanted to know what you thought.’

He snorted. ‘That’d be a first.’ 

‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale hissed, ‘do please stop being such a bore, and for goodness sake, tell me what you think!’

Her cheeks were flushed in frustration as she stomped her high heeled wing tips shoes in the snow. 

‘I think you look beautiful,’ Crowley said. The words had escaped his mouth before he could really consider them, and now they were out there in the world he wanted to squirm away and pretend he they weren’t with him.

‘So, you do prefer…all this,’ Aziraphale said, her perfectly coiffed blonde bob quivering with triumph as she gestured downwards at all _this_. 

Crowley thought this was bit hasty. ‘Well, I liked the way you looked before, too.’

Her eyes narrowed; Crowley could almost hear wheels turning. ‘Before. Hmm. Yes. I see.’ 

‘Right.’ This conversation was veering wildly out of Crowley’s control. ‘Now that’s settled, shall we go back to yours and crack open a bottle of wine?’ 

‘What’s that?’ Aziraphale seemed to have drifted off for moment. ‘Bottle of wine? Sounds lovely. How about Tuesday?’ 

‘Tuesday?’ Crowley called at Aziraphale’s already retreating back. ‘What’s wrong with now?’

‘Must dash, my dear. Tuesday–it’s a date. I’ll pick you up. Pip pip!’ 

Crowley was left holding an almost finished cone of cotton candy in the slush, gazing open mouthed after her and considering all possible meanings of the word ‘date’. The Ferris wheel vendor patted him on the shoulder as he walked past. 

‘Women,’ he said, in a tone that was clearly meant to be consoling.

‘Oh, fuck off,’ said Crowley. 

*

Aziraphale hadn’t specified a time on Tuesday. Calling to check would be out of the question. Crowley couldn’t look too keen, it just wasn’t part of his vibe. Time meant nothing to him, anyway. He could do things at whatever time he liked, or not do things. Time was his plaything, time would bend to his will. He polished his sunglasses at 3.31pm and sat down on his couch, to wait. 

It was 9pm when the doorbell rang. Crowley let it ring twice before answering. 

‘Yah. Who is it?’ 

Aziraphale’s voice–lower than it was the day they went to the market–whispered through the buzzer. ‘Who do you think it is? Let me in, will you, this bag is heavy.’ 

‘Aziraphale?’ What bag? ‘Oh, Aziraphale, right. Of course. Did we say Tuesday?’ 

Although he’d been to the apartment many times by now, Aziraphale still struggled to comprehend Crowley’s voice operated stove and refrigerator, and so it took him a while to unpack the cooler bag of food he had brought with him. Crowley was grateful for this, as it gave him ample opportunity to taken in Aziraphale’s newest look. 

He was a man again, and he was himself, mostly, so Crowley couldn’t understand why he was struggling so to wrap his head around all of it. Perhaps it was the jeans. He’d never seen Aziraphale in jeans, or in anything so eye-wateringly tight since men’s tights went out of fashion. He was wearing a T-Shirt, sleeves short enough to show off his newly sculpted biceps and the hint–just the hint–of a black tattoo on his right shoulder. He’d kept the youthfulness from the last time, but somehow managed to decrease already negligible ratio of body fat and muscle. Oh, god–was that an ear piercing? 

Aziraphale eventually resorted to miracling the mince pies warm and poured them both a generous glass of wine, all the while babbling about this or that book, and Crowley nodded along. He wasn’t listening. He was too busy wondering how the hell he was meant to broach the subject of his best friend’s obvious mid-life crisis. Though, as they were immortal beings, maybe it was just a crisis. Aziraphale was in crisis. 

‘Angel,’ he said, ‘what’s all this about?’ 

Aziraphale stopped, mid-way through his explanation of the finer details of elements necessary for the perfect mince pie, which he had eaten in a tavern on the outskirts of Cambridge in the 1399 and had failed to recreate since, although M&S’s All Butter ones were a marvellous runner up.

‘I’ve told you, Crowley,’ Aziraphale said, sighing, ‘it’s about orange zest.’ 

‘I know all that. We went to The Cambridge Dolphyn together, remember? I meant what’s all this about,’ Crowley said, sweeping his hand downwards to indicate that Aziraphale’s new lithe form was what he meant by all _this_. 

‘Oh, well,’ Aziraphale bit his plump bottom lip. ‘I thought, know you, hard to get it quite right the first go, so why not keep experimenting. You…you don’t like it?’ His forehead furrowed. It was disconcerting to see such smooth skin creased, like seeing a baby with wrinkles. ‘Only I rather thought you weren’t awfully keen on the last one.’ 

Crowley gaped. ‘So, this is my fault? Why on earth would my opinion on the subject matter, angel?’ the red wine in his glass jumped around like a stormy sea as he waved it around. ‘Please, explain to me whatever it is I’ve possibly done to make you think that I give a toss about how you look.’

Aziraphale opened his mouth. He closed it again. He looked a bit like a fish out of water. ‘Oh.’ 

It wasn’t until Crowley discovered the still half full pack of M&S mince pies that Aziraphale had left behind that he knew he’d seriously mucked up.  
*

It took Crowley two days to get fed up.

Ignoring the ‘closed’ sign on the door, he stormed in with a large and fragrant bouquet in one hand. He found Aziraphale at the back of the shop, wearing a woollen jumper and a weepy expression and looking very much like himself again. 

'Look, angel, I’ve had about enough of this!’ he shouted. ‘Where have you been? And what’s with all this different get-ups? Are you trying to impress someone? Because if you want me out of the way, that’s all you had to say, you know. I don’t need you. If you’re just using me as some guinea pig for whatever human you’re trying to impress, you can forget it, do you hear?’

He gestured wildly with the bouquet, scattering red rose petals everywhere.

‘And while we’re on the subject,’ he said, ‘I don’t care what you look like. You can be as feminine or butch or twinky as you please, as long as you’re happy, because seeing you happy is the most beautiful sight in the world, and anyone who doesn’t think that is obviously a tosser who needs to get their eyesight tested.’ He breathed out. ‘Alright? Is that all perfectly clear?’

Aziraphale bunched his hands in the lapels of Crowley’s jacket and pulled him in to press their mouths together, knocking his sunglasses off in the process. For a moment, Crowley stood frozen, eyes wide open as Aziraphale’s nose pressed against his cheek and lips pressed his own, patiently and insistently. He wrapped arms around Aziraphale’s waist to slot their mouths more closely together, like a snake wrapping curling itself around a sun-warmed rock. Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley tasted salt on his lips.

‘Oh, Crowley,’ he said. ‘I thought, perhaps, you weren’t interested.’ 

Crowley shook his head: words were unnecessary delays on the way to more kissing. 

Their legs were tangled together on the couch. Aziraphale was on top of Crowley, the latter’s arms stretched above him underneath Aziraphale’s hand. Crowley had never paid much attention to the space between his neck and his shoulder before, and now that Aziraphale was nuzzling that spot with his tongue, he wondered that he’d gone through his whole existence without ever knowing what it was called. 

‘Crowley?’ Aziraphale whispered. 

Crowley squirmed; the breath on his neck somehow made his waist twitch. ‘Yes?’ There was a strand of hair caught in his mouth.

Aziraphale propped himself up on one hand to better look into Crowley’s eyes, his expression serious. ‘What is a twink?’ 

*  
They brought in the New Year with a kiss.

Crowley pulled back afterwards, smacking his lips. Orange?

‘Are you wearing lip gloss?’ he asked. 

Aziraphale smiled mischievously: his twinkling eyes matched the silver cross dangling from his right ear. 

‘Why, yes, I am,’ he said, running his hand down the black velvet skirt Crowley was wearing. ‘Would you like some?’


End file.
